Outside Context Problem: Book 02 - Under Foot

by Christopher Nuttall

  “Then round up their families and make an example of them,” Daisy snapped. “Or disarm and arrest the remaining policemen and convert them to your way of thinking.”

  “Many of their families have already vanished,” General Howery said. “They may have slipped into the underground, or gone to stay with friends, or…be that as it may, the Chicago Police Force is no longer reliable.”

  “If it ever was,” Ethos said.

  Karen jumped. Somehow, she hadn’t seen the alien. He’d been standing in the corner, watching and listening as his human servants argued. One dark eye met hers for a second, before he looked away and down towards the map. She wondered what the alien made of the human buildings. Ethos seemed perfectly comfortable in the hotel, yet the handful of images she’d seen of alien buildings out in Flyover Country were very different from human constructions. The alien sense of what a building should look like would have daunted Howard Roark.

  “We need to regain control of the city rapidly before resistance spreads into other cities,” Ethos continued. “We also need most of the population alive. Starving them out is not a viable option. We need to act rapidly. General?”

  “We will be transferring several units from the Order Police to Chicago to replace the dead and wounded,” General Howery said. “We will also be transferring units recruited from prison camps in the Middle East…sir, that is not wise.”

  Ethos’s great head tilted slightly, silently inviting General Howery to continue.

  “The average Middle Eastern soldier is useless except in a pre-planned battle,” General Howery said. “They can barely cope with stone-throwing insurgents and backing up corrupt governments and clerics. Even if we brought in tens of thousands of them and they were all reliable, they would provoke Americans to even greater fits of fury and insurgency. The average Joe Sixpack hates Arabs. He sees them as ungrateful little bastards who drain America’s resources, beat women, support terrorism and generally don’t deserve to exist. Putting any foreign army on American soil would trigger an uprising, but Arabs…they’ll be massacred in their thousands.”

  Karen couldn’t disagree with his logic, but she kept her mouth firmly closed. The President would need to hear of the threat before it was too late, but she would have to have more to tell him. If the aliens deployed Arab soldiers to American soil, the results would not be pleasant…and then it occurred to her that the aliens might not care if all the Arabs were killed. They claimed to have thousands of prisoners from the brief invasion of the Middle East and they might regard them all as expendable. It would suit the most ruthless of minds to expend them all on crushing resistance in Chicago.

  “There are other considerations,” Ethos informed him. “You will see to deploying and arming the Arabs when they arrive. They will be loaded onboard transports within the day and transferred to Chicago.”

  “Please will you make additional Warrior support available,” General Howery said. “If the Arabs are just going to soak up bullets, we can at least move the Warriors up after them and complete the destruction of the resistance.”

  “Do what you think most suitable,” Ethos said. The alien turned away slightly, and then turned back. “And the countryside?”

  “We have teams heading out now to complete the registration process and start integrating the countryside into the new order,” Daisy assured him. “It will also give us insight into how the resistance is operating outside the cities and allow us to isolate and target their bases. Who knows? We might even encounter the President’s hole and drag him out to present him to the country.”

  Karen felt her face twist and hoped that none of them had noticed. Daisy wouldn’t say a word, Ethos might not recognise the expression, but Howery would…and if he had concerns, he would take them to the alien leader. A word from him could mean a date with the conversion team and becoming one of the Walking Dead. It would be the end of her life as a free woman…but then, she wasn’t really free as long as she was in the Green Zone. Daisy could dispose of her within seconds.

  “Keep me informed,” Ethos said.

  The alien stepped out of the door and vanished. Karen tried to form a mental image of an IED exploding inside the Green Zone and blowing the alien to bits, but no one had managed to smuggle any explosives inside after the aliens had sealed off the area. A handful had tried and had been detected and captured. Two of them had become Walking Dead and betrayed dozens of their comrades. The remainder had simply been executed, or transferred to a holding camp somewhere out in the countryside. No one, not even Daisy, knew what happened to them then.

  “Karen, start producing a list of buildings that we can use to house the Arabs when they arrive,” Daisy said, as soon as Ethos was gone. “Lay on food, women and anything else they want.”

  “Of course, Director,” Karen said. “Is there anything else you wish me to do?”

  “Let me have the list as soon as it’s finished,” Daisy said. “Be off with you.”

  Karen shrugged and headed down to her own office. The aliens had constructed a massive database representing Chicago and all of the other cities. It was easy enough to isolate buildings that might serve to house large numbers of troops. She considered playing around with the requirements to ensure that they had an uncomfortable stay, but she knew that it would be futile – and lethal if it were traced back to her. As she worked, she composed her message to the President in her head. She’d send it as soon as she went off duty…

  …And the aliens would discover just how nasty the war could become.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mannington, Virginia, USA

  Day 127

  “They’re coming, Sheriff.”

  Sheriff Chris French nodded curtly. Every instinct in his body – he’d been a Military Policeman back when he’d served in the Army, before retiring and being voted into office – was screaming at him to unlimber the stockpile of heavy weapons they’d salvaged and open fire on the oncoming convoy. He’d studied images sent back by a recon team and he hadn’t been too impressed. The Order Police might have snazzy uniforms – the historians in Mannington had commented that someone had been inspired by the Nazis – but they didn’t know much about operating a convoy. Their vehicles were all bunched up, far too close together for comfort. An ambush would probably have wiped the entire convoy out.

  But that would have merely brought down alien wrath on Mannington. Its status as a hub of the resistance would have been revealed, breaking the chain binding the different units together and allowing the aliens to convert more people into their Walking Dead. The thought of what he could tell them, if they made him utterly loyal to them, was chilling. He’d seriously considered fleeing into the countryside and only the thought of his family had kept him in the town. They had to get through this peacefully. It was the only option.

  “I know,” he said. He keyed his radio. “No resistance. Keep the guns out of sight and leave them in the hides. Do not fire without a direct order from me or Deputy Jack. I say again, do not fire.”

  The barricade across the road, unmanned, wouldn’t deter them for a moment, but a team of teenage boys was already removing part of it, allowing the convoy to enter town. It was composed of a mixture of vehicles, including a set of Bradley Armoured Fighting Vehicles and four trucks that had been converted into troop transports. Chris wasn't sure if the odd disparities in equipment were a result of shortages, or if the more standard troop transports had been deployed elsewhere. The aliens had certainly captured a vast amount of equipment when they’d descended on the military bases, so perhaps they were working their way through it and putting what they could back into service. It was an oddly reassuring thought. They had limits on how much of their own technology they could deploy. He caught sight of the boxy Bradley as the lead vehicle loomed into view and smiled to himself. The Bradley was tough, but IEDs had taken them out in Iraq and – if necessary – the same trick would work in America.

  He’d been curious to see if the patrol woul
d be led by an alien, but it rapidly became clear that the leader was human, one of the Walking Dead. Chris looked up into his eyes and shivered. He’d helped capture a serial killer who’d kidnapped, raped and murdered three little girls before he’d been caught, yet the serial killer hadn’t been anything like as inhuman. The Walking Dead man might as well be a zombie. There was no feeling behind those eyes. No pride, no shame, no greed…he was nothing, but a servant for an alien power.

  “Welcome to Mannington,” he said, holding out a hand. The Walking Dead man looked at it as if he wasn't quite sure what to do with it. For a moment, Chris caught sight of the real personality behind the face, a man screaming inside his own head. “What can we do for you?”

  “I am Colonel Anders,” the man said. His voice sounded completely devoid of all feeling. “I have orders to bring Mannington into the system for rebuilding the country and adapting to the new world order. You will assemble your entire population on the playing fields while we search your town. Please be advised that public possession of firearms and military equipment is forbidden by governmental edict and any of your people found with a firearm at a later date will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”

  Chris winced inwardly. Mannington, like many rural towns, had its fair share of Second Amendment fanatics, even before President Chalk had rendered all gun control legislation null and void, in preparation for the invasion everyone knew was coming. He’d issued orders to hide as many weapons as possible, but if merely possessing them after the registration was a death sentence…there would be blood on the streets.

  “I understand,” he said. If the Walking Dead man had been human, he would have tried to ingrate himself with him, but he doubted that there was any point in trying. “I’ll assemble the people now.”

  He walked back to his car and issued the orders. No one would be happy, but they’d all cooperate. Mannington’s survival depended on remaining unnoticed, yet statistically he was sure that there was at least one rat among the town’s population. The various books on insurgency and counter-insurgency he’d read had suggested that there would always be someone who was vulnerable to pressure, either through greed or a desperate urge to preserve their families. It wasn't going to be a pleasant experience for anyone. He just hoped that everyone would have the sense to keep their heads down and remain unnoticed.

  ***

  Greg Ross held Nancy’s hand as they were urged towards the playing field, where he’d spent many happy afternoons watching kids playing baseball. Nancy had once told him that she wanted to be a cheerleader when she grew up, along with a hundred other possible occupations for a girl in America. She had had her name down for the shooting team – no one had realised that she was too young until the first day – and went on every camping trip the town’s different groups offered. It was her father’s influence, Greg considered, before quashing that thought as hard as he could. He had to remember that, as far as the Order Police were concerned, Nancy only had one father.

  The playing fields were surrounded by a pair of buttoned down tanks, their weapons not quite pointing in the general direction of the grumbling townspeople. It was a threat Greg took note of, knowing that machine guns would tear through them all in seconds, leaving them all dead or dying on the field. He held Nancy close as the final people arrived, hoping that none of the Order Police would take a liking to her. There were rumours about some of the other mass registrations, where girls had been dragged away from their families and never seen again. He caught sight of a pair of Order Policemen and realised that they were scared, under the air of steely determination they were trying to produce. They reminded him of the first time he’d met Nicolas, when he wasn't quite sure what to expect from a trained soldier. They looked as if they were far too jumpy. He braced himself, preparing to push Nancy to the ground and roll on top of her to provide what little cover he could, but nothing happened. No one fired a shot.

  An hour passed slowly as the Order Police searched the town, smashing their way through locked doors and windows. It sounded as if the entire town was being ransacked and he heard angry rumblings from people who had lived in the town for years, but no one made a move. The tanks’ mere presence firmly quashed any thoughts of resistance. The kids ran around at the edge of the playing field, barely affected by the atmosphere, even though they never went anywhere near the tanks. Greg watched parents watching their kids and shared their fear. Nancy might not have been his, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t want to see her die.

  Finally, the Order Police returned to the playing field. “Attention,” the leader said. There was something badly wrong with him, as if he had drugged himself into a stupor. His eyes seemed inhumanly cold. “You will now be registered and provided with an identity card. You will carry the card with you at all times. Losing or damaging the card will result in arrest and possible detention, certainly a large fine. Failure to present it when requested by a law enforcement agent will result in arrest and possible detention. Any child under ten years old will be counted on the mother’s identity card and will be given a card of his or her own when they reach ten years of age. Presenting false information will be considered a serious offence and will result in arrest and detention when discovered.”

  There was a pause. “Once you have been registered, you will be provided with a small pamphlet explaining your rights and responsibilities in the new world order,” he added. “Knowingly breaking any of the new laws will result in arrest and detention.” He pointed towards a set of tables at the end of the field. “Line up by families and be registered.”

  Greg muttered under his breath, but did as he was told. He’d researched the issue online when Nicolas had mentioned it to him and discovered that it was a means of population control. A person who had an ID Card could be tracked; a person without one, and without a valid excuse, could be arrested on suspicion. It could also be used to identify families and other links between people. A powerful database and a handful of search tools could turn up connections most people never even dreamed existed.

  The line moved slowly, but surely, until he was finally facing a bored-looking young man with a shaven head. “Name, please,” he said, in a bored monotone that suggested he’d done it a thousand times before, if not more. He rattled off a list of details Greg had to provide and seemed unconcerned about the answers. Greg felt his heart beating faster when he claimed Nancy Ross as his daughter, but the Order Policeman didn’t seem to notice anything wrong. “And finally…”

  He held out a scanner and invited Greg to touch it. A beam of warm blue light passed over his fingers. A moment later, an image of his fingerprints appeared in front of him. He’d seen them before, back when he’d been dared into a Jail and Bail scheme for charity, but this time it was real.

  “We know who you are now,” the young man informed him. For the first time, he sounded human. He reminded Greg of the football jock who’d had all the girls in High School, before he got into heavy drugs and ended up in jail. “Don’t even think that you can fool us by changing your fingerprints. We’ve got your DNA as well.”

  Greg felt his heart nearly stop as Nancy’s hands were pressed to the same scanner. A moment later, the Order Policeman sniggered. “Your wife cheated on you, buddy,” he said, with a nasty laugh. Greg stared at him in horror. It was easy to pretend that the horror wasn't about exposing Nancy’s real father. “She’s not yours.”

  Nancy, thankfully, kept quiet. “Her mother died a long time ago,” Greg said, truthfully. “I never…”

  He broke off. “Seven years with a brat who isn’t yours,” the Order Policeman said. “I’m afraid I don’t have a DNA match here for her father.” He laughed, sharing the joke. “Don’t worry. I’ll register her as your child and I’ll let you know who put the cuckoo in your nest if there’s a later match.”

  Greg’s legs were shaking, but somehow he controlled it enough to remain standing. “Please do,” he said. The Order Police could never know how close they’d come to
uncovering a resistance cell. “Until then…she’s mine.”

  “Here,” the Order Policeman said, dismissing the issue. He passed a copy of a pamphlet over to Greg. “You may go back home now. Best of luck with the bastard bitch.”

  He was still laughing as Greg walked off. Back home, he inspected the damage and confirmed that nothing had been taken, including the hidden pistol. The search had been more perfunctory that he’d expected, but then, Mannington was a large town and the Order Police had an entire state to register. They’d ignored the five hundred dollars hidden in one of the drawers, although perhaps that wasn’t too surprising. Dollars, these days, were only useful as toilet paper. It would be years before a new currency could be established.

  Slowly, he read through the official document. There was little there to surprise him, but it meant that life was going to change, again. The private possession of firearms was banned – the first step of any occupying power – and anyone caught with a weapon would be moved to a detention centre. Worse, there were strict movement controls. Anyone more than fifty miles from their place of accommodation without permission would be arrested and detained. Truckers and others who needed to travel regularly had to be registered separately. Anyone who wanted permission to move their place of accommodation had to apply directly to the Order Police, presenting unlimited opportunities for graft and corruption. It was…un-American.

  He put it down and looked over at Nancy. There were times when she was just a child, and other times when she was smart, scarily smart. His heart ached with love for her, the little girl he’d brought into his family and made part of his life. What would happen to her, and the millions like her, if they grew up in such an oppressive environment? Would they become good little peons, or serfs, or…what?